John Cheney - City of Spies

Captain Loeffler called out in the darkness. “Comrades! Comrades! We’ve come to tell you your mission has been aborted!”

The door of the train car slid open, and a voice shouted in reply. It carried weight and authority—ostensibly one of the officers. “What do you mean, aborted?”

“Just that! Direct orders from Comrade Honecker himself!”

“Where’s your proof?”

Loeffler pulled a sheet from his pocket and held his flashlight behind it, illuminating the paper for the officer to see.

“Bring it here,” the officer ordered suspiciously. “Just you.”

Loeffler moved forward, carefully pointing his flashlight at the ground in front of him. This was not only so he could see, but was also meant as a gesture of non-aggression. No doubt the rogue soldiers had their guns aimed at him; it was best to not provoke them. Finally he reached the train and handed the paper to the officer.

The officer read, then seemed to sink with disappointment. “I’ll be damned.”

“Where’s the other train?” Loeffler asked.

“A hundred meters farther down. They’re also stuck. One of their men came back this way when we stopped. I’ll give him the message.”

Koch was relieved to hear both trains had been stopped, though his heartbeat raced when he learned how close the first train had gotten to the West. It was on the final stretch just before Anhalter Bahnhof, some 100 meters from the station’s platform, when all went dark. In the confusion, the soldiers had waited while they established contact with the second train, a move that probably saved everyone from disaster.

It would take almost an hour for all of the soldiers to retreat back through the tunnel to the Potsdamer Platz station. From there, the troops exited the underground ghost station and boarded awaiting trucks in the death strip above. Not wanting to alarm the Allied soldiers watching from the other side of the Wall, the border guards shuttled the soldiers in several small groups.

When they had finished moving the soldiers, the border guards brought in maintenance crews to repair Koch’s work and remove the trains from the tunnels. The S-Bahn was shut down well into the next morning.

“You know,” Loeffler ribbed Koch, “you’re the only member of the Border Troops who has ever single-handedly disrupted the S-Bahn schedule.”

Koch smiled, knowing an unspoken sentiment had passed between them. After this night, Koch knew he should feel exhausted, but all he felt was relief.

Hans drove past the Hotel Adlon and turned left onto the easternmost stretch of Unter den Linden. As he turned, he glanced back to his right. The police cars were gone. Perhaps he had lost them just long enough. Before him stretched Pariser Platz, patrolled by the Border Troops, and beyond the Platz, illuminated by floodlights, the historic Brandenburg Gate. Flying high at the very top of the gate, above its greenish copper roofs and quadriga, was the GDR flag. It reminded Hans that he still had a dangerous path to cross. He rode toward the barrier at Pariser Platz, the low barricade ‘baby wall.’ Despite his harried appearance, Hans still had an authoritative bearing in his Border Troop officer uniform. If the guards had not been informed of his fugitive status, he might be able to play out a charade long enough to gain the leverage he needed.

In the building immediately northeast of the Brandenburg Gate, a man was moving fast up the stairs, agile as a panther. Though he had only received his assignment minutes ago, he was now at his destination, the roof overlooking the space between the Brandenburg Gate and the Wall. Mason had given him a single objective, one that had to be achieved at all costs. Hans Brandt could not be captured. He could be sacrificed, if necessary, but under no circumstances should Hans fall into enemy hands.

The man, dressed in black, moved with stealth as he took his position at the edge of the roof. He pulled a Soviet-made Dragunov sniper rifle from a case, loaded it, and began to scope in on his target. He worked with brisk efficiency, all the while slowing his heart rate to the steely calm pulse of a predator. Within moments, he was coldly looking through the scope; his finger crooked just a hair away from the trigger.

As Hans reached the baby wall, a patrol guard spotted him and approached. Noting the rank on Hans’ shoulder boards, the soldier asked, “Can I help you, Comrade Lieutenant Colonel?”

“I have urgent news from the Minister of Defense. I need to speak with your commanding officer immediately.”

“If you wait here, I’ll go get him.” The soldier gestured to the movable fence barricade. If Hans moved it aside, he could maneuver the motorcycle through.

“This is an urgent matter of national security,” Hans reminded the guard. “Go!”

The guard nodded, and holding onto the sling of his rifle, sprinted toward the Gate’s northern guardhouse.

Suddenly, sirens blared, coming from farther up Unter den Linden. Hans turned to see a group of police cars swerve onto the avenue from somewhere beyond the Soviet embassy. Their blue lights flashing, the cars took up both sides of the street as they headed directly toward him. Brüske was in the lead car. Having lost Hans at the Palace of Republic, he had no intention of letting him slip away again.

Hans pushed the barrier over and gunned the motorcycle’s engine. Within seconds, he was flying past the guardhouse, where the soldier, his commander, and several other guards first shouted in surprise, then outrage. As Hans zipped between two of the mammoth columns of the Gate, the guards drew their weapons and prepared to fire. But Hans throttled the engine up and flew out the other side before the guards could get an angle on him. They pursued him on foot, trying to get a clean line of fire.

In a guard tower less than fifty meters north of the Gate, two guards watched Hans ride out into the half-circle plaza in front of the Wall. They immediately raised their guns to fire.

Hans accelerated as he raced into the bare plaza, trying to close the distance between him and the Wall. The less time he was out in the open, the greater chance he stood of surviving. But Hans suddenly realized he was going too fast. If he didn’t slow or turn now, he would slam directly into the ten-foot thick concrete Wall. He braked and swerved the motorcycle to avoid the collision.

The velocity was too great to handle. The motorcycle slid out from under Hans and scraped along the asphalt until it hit the Wall with a hard thud. Hans slid after the motorcycle, the asphalt shredding his uniform pants and delivering a searing road burn. It didn’t matter. Hans sprang to his feet and sprinted toward the Wall.

From the rooftop a hundred and fifty meters away, the sniper watched Hans emerge from behind the Gate and slide off of the motorcycle. He saw Hans run as a group of guards emerged from the Gate in pursuit. The sniper calmly aimed the rifle. Hans’ head was directly in his cross hairs. The sniper paused, then swiveled the barrel of his gun toward the guard tower. He could see the guards aiming their AK-47s.

Hans drove all of his energy into his legs, sprinting to the Wall. At the last second, he vaulted on top of the motorcycle, pushing himself higher as he leaped toward the four-inch thick lip of the Wall. He just grasped the top, ten feet up, and pulled himself up by his fingertips.

Without warning, bullets ricocheted off the surface of the Wall next to him. Hans had no time to look back. He strained his arms to pull himself up.

In the tower, the guards had Hans’ outstretched body in their sights. The older of the two guards scowled, his first shot having missed, and readjusted his aim.

Suddenly there was an explosion of shattering glass behind them. The guards instinctively hit the ground, taking cover. Then they looked back to the source of the blast—the rear window of the tower was gone.